


Pressure

by HexKey



Series: Pressure [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Belts, Bondage, Breath Control, Cruelty, Hurt Clint, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual, Non-Consensual Kissing, Pain, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sadism, Slave Clint, Stomach Ache, Stomach Punch, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HexKey/pseuds/HexKey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki loves Clint's stomach</p><p> </p><p>  <em>"A body designed for use, not for show.</em><br/><em>And Loki yearned to use it."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is unapologetic kink with non-con mind control (but thats par for the course in a Hawkeye/Loki paring) Warnings apply. I reply to all reviews/comments. Flames welcomed. (Ok, not "welcomed" but I'm not going to say "no flames")
> 
> What the hell... we're all pervs here.

Loki loved Clint's stomach. Smooth and toned; defined but not chiseled by vanity. He found no perfection in the oiled, bronzed, shorn specimens exhibiting the anatomy of every muscle. He preferred the curving lines and flat planes of his thrall's abdomen; firm but flexible muscles etched under his skin, a concave navel, each swell and furrow framed by the sharp delineation of ribs and hips. Natural grace distinguished each contour as he moved and breathed. 

His strength and shape came from dedication to duty and discipline. Prowess developed purely for function. The resulting form, however, was superb. A body designed for use, not for show.

And Loki yearned to use it.

* * *

Hawkeye entered the former munitions locker and respectfully waited Loki's pleasure. The god lounged on an antique couch in the richly appointed bed chamber. Elegant and ornate furnishing filled the room: the couch, a table and chairs, and an elaborately carved bed. Steel shelving and hooks for weapons still lined the unadorned stone walls. The stone wept in places, dampening the dense dark green and gold carpeting.

"Lock the door."

"Yes, sir."

"Have the arrangements been made?"

"Yes, sir."

"All the equipment ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know why I called you here?"

"No, sir."

"It wasn't for a status report."

Barton blinked. "Sir?" 

Loki watched as Clint absorbed the details of the room he had conjured: the furniture, the barred door, his absence of helm and armor, his languid posture, his courtly but loose clothing and predatory eyes. Individual elements coalesced into a realization.

"Are you planning to fuck me, sir?" he asked, quiet voice full of deference.

"Oh, yes. Is that a problem, Agent Barton?"

"No, sir." The respectful monotone didn't reveal the horror the archer felt, but Loki could taste it on his tongue. 

His carotid pulse quickened visibly as Loki approached and he shifted from formal parade rest to a more ordinary stance, but he otherwise stood obediently. He licked his lips but stayed silent; he only spoke when directly addressed. Loki idly wondered if fear or perhaps unwanted excitement coursed through those veins before deciding he didn't care; he planned to take his pleasure irrespective. 

He stroked the side of Clint's face, smirking in satisfaction, knowing he couldn't flinch or pull away. The caress continued down his neck, clavicle and chest before tracing slow circles on his stomach. As soon as he slid his other hand around his throat, he had his answer: fear. This confident soldier's training honed him physically and mentally and he had endured much in the line of duty but this was different. It was unfathomable and it terrified him.

Loki decided preferred it that way. 

He released his grip and gestured. Barton began removing his weaponry with the angular, precise movements that characterized the Tesseract's effect on him. First, his bow and quiver came off. His heavy gloves and guards, thigh holster, several blades and two smaller revolvers quickly joined them on the table. His hands shook almost imperceptibly as he unbuckled his belt and pulled it free, gathering the collection of gear it held.

His jacket and shoulder holster followed. The jacket covered the small arsenal as he dropped it on the pile. His array of weapons was useless here.

Loki then took the task of striping him into his own hands. He watched with fascination as shirt came off, finally revealing the object of his fixation. Stepping in close, he opened Clint's pants. He nudged down the boxer briefs, grasped the zipper on either side and tucked the front of the pants inside against the skin, baring Hawkeye from throat to public bone. 

Loki's eyes raked the length of his body, lingering on the planes of his abdomen, the curl of his navel and the alluring contours of the muscles. Several scars marred the skin. A particularly ragged line skittered just below his sternum, undoubtedly an old injury, field-dressed and never properly treated. He traced the pink slash and thrilled at the shudder as his damaged nerves awakened.

He was as Loki had hoped; responsive but unwilling. Toys who begged to be used just weren't as exciting. However, constraining a man with nothing more than will, outwardly docile but impotently raging inside; that was sweet. And a subservient with a body both so sensitive and physically pleasing; that was a true delight. 

The first blow forced all the air from Clint's lungs; he should have been expecting it, a hard palm heel strike just below the solar plexus. It knocked him to one knee. Loki dragged him up bodily as his powerful shoulders were wracked with shallow gasps as he tried to regain control of his spasming diaphragm.

He waited until the breathing became less ragged and labored and resumed his grip on his throat. He lifted and squeezed sufficiently that his heels left the floor but allowing him clinging to him to keep his airway less restricted. The merciless god smirked just enough that Clint was prepared but exposed. He saw apprehension in his eyes as he delivered three quick jabs to either side of and then directly on his navel. 

Barton reflexively gripped his stomach, lurching forward, his groan cut off as he fell against the choke-hold. He managed to get his feet under himself while he struggled to breathe. Loki watched him suffer for a few moments and then disdainfully let go. He stayed on his boots if barely, holding his neck and his abdomen and coughing. 

Clint's thoughts were plain— _what the fuck?_

Cruelty curled Loki's lips as he contemplated just "what the fuck" he'd get to do tonight. Subjugating this entire world would give him ample opportunity to indulge his various tastes, but this was his favorite and he couldn't imagine a much more satisfying subject than Clint Barton. The union of artificial compliance and insurgence within coupled with that impeccable stomach seemed unsurpassable. Heady excitement and arousal surged through him and his cock beginning to strain against his trousers.

He pinned his shoulder against the wall and struck more blows to the side, upper and lower abdomen, meeting less resistance with each subsequent one. Palms braced on the stone, Barton endured the belly beating. Jaw clenched, he strove to repress gasps and moans. With each impact, he compressed his lips to hold back the sounds; each impact threatened to force them out more than the last. Loki enjoyed unchecked articulations of pain, but found even more gratification in eroding his restraint. 

He concluded he had struck much of the strength from his thrall's body when he could no longer contain them. Once more, he raised him by his throat. Again, Clint helplessly clung to his wrist to keep from suffocating. Loki glanced at his completely unprotected target, raised his gaze to meet the Clint's eyes and drove directly into the middle of the stomach. He left his fist buried in the flesh, knuckles rocking back and forth to burrow even deeper into his belly.

Clint moaned and hung his head momentarily, before returning the stare. Something that almost looked like defiance flared briefly in his spellbound eyes. He was as much fun Loki hoped. The vehemence faded to submission once more. 

The invading fist prevented any recoil. His legs jerked briefly but soon hung limp as his spine pressed flat against the cold damp wall. He gritted his teeth and drew air slowly as if breathing through pain that would soon be over. 

Not likely.

The abdominal aorta thudded desperately against Loki's fist. He felt desperation in the racing heartbeat as adrenaline saturated Hawkeye's system, even though his body was incapable of fight or flight. Weakened muscles involuntarily tried to repel the attack until failing, allowing further penetration into his stomach. He imagined Clint's organs repositioning in response to this crushing onslaught, adapting to this sudden new presence, soft guts slipping aside. Humans adjusted so quickly. He drew back and Barton exhaled hard and sagged forward as if seeking to regain equilibrium. 

Loki pushed him back to the wall, his skull thumping dully on the stone. He brought his knee up and languidly pressed it into the place his knuckles had been, slowly traveling downward, pressing and releasing and reordering and pressing again. Loki wondered if Clint knew how much more damned desirable he was making himself as he shifted his hips evasively and muffled gasps with each incursion. Probably not. 

Exploiting his superior height, he propped against the stone and spoke conspiratorially in his ear. "Don't struggle so, Agent Barton. The sooner you become accustomed, the less vexatious it will become. Accept this as your natural place and perhaps you might learn to be grateful for my attentions." He blithely ran his fingers over the front of Clint's pants, feeling his unresponsive cock.

"Before this night is done, you will ache for my touch," Loki promised, squeezing lightly. Again, thoughts leaked into those empty eyes— _fat chance._ Loki's malevolent grin promised to prove him wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unapologetic kink continues. Same warnings apply with the addition of explicit oral sex. I reply to all signed reviews. Flame on.
> 
> If you're still here after the first chapter, well, this one isn't too much worse. (Might even be more fun.)
> 
> I haven't been able to bring myself to request a beta on this; I don't know if I could handle a line-by-line commentary from anyone. Feel free to PM me about my more flagrant typos. All the 'he's and 'his'es have been difficult.

A broad hook curved from the wall above Hawkeye's head. Loki guided him to grasp it. He could still rest partially on his toes, but he was stretched out as it bore most of his weight. His body elongated to greater vulnerability, his stomach opened to his cruel whim. Loki poked into the formerly round belly button, now pulled to a thin line, until Barton bit back a wince.

"Do you know what will happen if you let go?" he asked with the same courtesy one might use to ask a stranger the time. He ground deeper and then withdrew.

"No, sir," he rasped.

The dangerous smile returned as he gripped Clint's chin and traced the lower lip before thrusting his thumb into the other man's mouth. The pad of his thumb stroked against his teeth and the tip of his tongue - a peculiarly vulgar gesture for the effete god. "We shall see if your mouth is capable of anything beyond confirmation and denial."

Hawkeye swallowed thickly, his feelings clear: even more than being subjected to this eroticized torture, he didn't want to be forced to suck Loki’s dick too. He seemed to conclude the inevitability however; not even his strong shoulders and back could withstand this indefinitely. The defeat was etched in the cords of his arms even as he strained.

"I understand, sir," the deference in his voice accentuated by hoarseness.

A different confirmation flashed briefly in his eyes: _And if I survive this, I will end yo_ u...sir.

Loki toyed with the idea of withdrawing his direct control to hear all the unspoken thoughts and see all the emotions in those expressive eyes, unfiltered through the prism of the tesseract. He knew he could just order him to react any way he wanted him to; but what would be the satisfaction in that? If he did want to see genuine reaction, returning Clint to his own capacity was the best option. He could always retake him later. Threats of further violence should be enough to force compliance but he needed Clint alive and assassin's pride might prefer death over submission.

Hawkeye twisted and shifted, trying to gain better purchase. Loki’s mouth literally watered at the sight of his muscles flexing and straining. The reddened skin around his waist was already darkening and he moved gingerly. Finally, he reached a point of balance he could maintain.

He began a new assault by firmly planting a thumb on either side of the spreading bruise and pressing, slowly stretching the taut and abused muscles. Clint sucked in sharply as it crossed from discomfort to pain and again as the pain deepened to an ache that filled his whole belly. He exhaled with comparative relief when the pain leveled off as digits could go no further.

Loki lunged forward and seized his lips with his own. His mouth muffled Clint's yelp both of surprise and pain as the momentum reverberated through him in a fresh wave. He hesitated to answer the kiss, as if uncertain how to please until another sharp jab urged him into action. As in everything else, he found nothing lacking in his thrall's performance: soft lips contrasted by harsh stubble, supple tongue contrasted by hard teeth, inner resistance contrasted by helpless surrender.

He alternated thumbs, fists, knees and fingers; groping, kneading and exploring. He experimented with different velocities; steady and slow vs. sharp and quick. Barton seemed to most quickly acclimate when he probed the perimeter of his abdomen but writhed pleasingly when he pressed slowly into his navel. He found a pressure point to the left of the navel and another higher and to the right that brought on a dizzyingly agonized ecstasy. He decided to file those away for later. And, unsurprisingly, he discovered knees or fists sunk to the lower belly, flush with nerves and where the muscle thinned, were the most excruciating. He explored Clint's mouth as well, relishing the sighs and grunts escaping into his mouth as he pushed on that perfect stomach.

He had enjoyed the sharp strikes, but he savored these slower deep pressings. They yielded more desirable reactions and caused as much if not more suffering.

He noticed Clint becoming paler, his flesh cooler and his reactions less pronounced. Even the astral blue light in his irises dimmed. Fury probably conditioned his agents to lapse into a protective stupor under prolonged torture. Loki was annoyed; he had many more desires to satiate.

"Agent Barton, remain alert."

He jerked as if sluiced with freezing water. He coughed and refocused, "yes, sir."

Palm sliding up the clammy skin, Loki's thumb and forefinger stopped just under the lowest ribs. He shoved in and up hard to remind Clint of his place. He was here for Loki's pleasure and he would remain here to experience everything he deigned to give him. Heat radiating from deep inside warmed his fingers as he crushed deeper, relenting just short of cracking ribs. A shuddering slow breath drained from Clint's kiss-battered lips.

"I've never had a human before, never lavished so much attention on something so unworthy. How does it feel to be worshipped by a god?"

"It hurts, sir."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"It hurts .... a lot, sir?"

There was mockery under the servile tone, in his assiduous use of the word 'sir'. The tesseract should have suppressed the more glib and acerbic parts of his personality, leaving only his cleverness, ability and discipline. Loki suspected visit to insensibility had briefly loosened Clint's bonds—or at least his tongue; he hadn't given any indication he had regained control of his body—but that this derision might always be present in even his most deferential statements.

"You will respond," he said, "you hear my words."

"Yes, sir. That hurts, too, sir."

Clint's head jerked as Loki slapped him. He kept his face averted while shaking off the blow.

He traced the curve of Clint's bottom lip, wiping away the blood. "Your mouth is going to be a source of great trouble for you, Agent Barton."

"I get that a lot, sir."

"Some part of you must find pleasure in my attentions. What pleases you?"

"Uh...none of it, sir?"

Anger flaring, his right hook fractured bone, causing immediate swelling.

Barton spat. "Definitely not that, sir."

A swift upper cut under his possibly broken ribs seemed to neutralize any remaining impudence. Light flared back in his irises; however Loki was reminded that underneath the veneer of the Tesseract's power, he could only command certain parts of the mind.

With greater aggression, he targeted the bruised and weak spots he had mapped on Barton's abdomen. He proceeded inexorably, wringing sharp expressions of pain and expletives instead of erotic moans. He no longer focused on his appreciation of the archer's body; he punished real and imagined insolence.

Sliding palms along his obliques, he pressed where they joined the abs, straining ligaments. Unlike flexible muscle, this connective tissue resisted. Sinew lacked the sensitivity for producing more subtle responses, but for maximum distress, it answered nicely. He worked the midline, too. Revisiting his navel and stressing above and below as well, spreading the pain symmetrically.

After a particularly forceful thrust in the vicinity of his liver, Clint dry-retched and nearly slipped from the sweat-slicked metal. Starving him had turned out to be a boon to Loki's shoes. By this time, the Clint's skin glistened and blotched with exertion. Sweat ran and pooled along the contours of his body. His short sandy hair was drenched and he seemed almost blinded as perspiration cascaded into unswollen eye. But, jaw clenched in determination, he showed no sign of releasing his hold.

_Enough_ , Loki decided. He grew impatient as his member grew ever harder. And, especially after his last round, it was possible Clint was bleeding internally. Even restraining, he was much stronger than any mortal. A sharp blow to the throat and Hawkeye lay prone and panting on the floor.

"On your knees," he snarled, annoyed that Clint thwarted him with obedience. He had wanted him to collapse on his own, to fail. Rebellious obedience: a unique form of disrespect that. His penance would be swift. Not that he hadn't intended to put that clever mouth to use, but he surly could adjust how much discomfort he extorted.

Clint pushed up, faltered and instinctively steadied himself on Loki's hips. The god recoiled and he fell back to hands and knees. He tensed, as if expecting a sharp kick to his tender belly. Loki considered it, but his struggles were tiresome enough, even if somewhat gratifying.

With disgust, Loki hauled him up, but he couldn't maintain his balance. Irritably, he propped him against the table, retrieved the leather belt and cinched it tight around his waist. Clint choked as the buckle caught and held. Girded, he knelt before his cruel master, blinking back fresh tears of pain.

"Pathetic."

"Yes, sir," Clint agreed.

Piqued, he tightened the belt one more increment. Barton swayed and caught the edge of the table, coughing shallowly and swiping weakly at the blood on his face. Loki thrilled to see the unyielding strap squeezing his stomach to a seemingly impossible degree.

"Beg me." Loki genuinely didn't know if he was asking him to beg for mercy, for respite or for the honor of servicing him.

"Please, sir."

The 'sir' rankled. He wrenched Clint forward by the back of his neck, his thumb hooked commandingly under his chin and turned up his bruised face. He gazed down coldly, searching for insolence, fear or hostility. Despair would have pleased him. He found only emptiness; a return of utter external subjugation.

"Satisfy me," he said softly, cradling his painfully engorged erection.

He groaned as his mouth received the head and an inch or two of his shaft and sighed when his tongue brushed the sensitive underside. His mouth worked experimentally, adjusting to the unfamiliar act.

Unimpressed with his efforts, Loki bucked forward, driving as far into him as possible. His thrall struggled to accommodate him with difficulty, but finally managed.

He relaxed his harsh grip on Barton's neck and caught his shoulder instead, loosely but with this thumb pressed to the hollow of the throat–an unmistakable threat. He guided him, each stroke pounding the soft palette. The punitive angle, as intended, kept Clint off-balance, in pain and and just shy of gagging. Loki bared his teeth, hissing out his pleasure.

"You may lay hands on me," he said, augustly.

Barton wrapped one fist around the base, preventing another choking thrust. His other hand curled pleasantly around Loki's ass, using him to support his flagging strength. Rhythm slowed, he pressed the glans to the roof of his mouth, hard. Loki gasped in sudden appreciation, stroking Clint’s short hair. He had to reach for the wall in a shock of sensation when the tongue he had so wished to punish swirled around him, maintaining that delicious pressure. He groaned, electrified.

When he felt he was reaching the end of Barton's endurance, he unchecked his restraint and surrendered. Trembling with impending orgasm, he roughly withdrew and resumed his grip on neck and chin.

Climax overtook him and with a ragged gasp, he released his ejaculate just below his eyes, boldly and crassly declaring his complete possession. Even he was surprised by the action.

When Clint didn't not react to the indignity with more than a blink, Loki was almost disappointed. As the pounding of his heart subsided from his ears, he steadied himself and straightened his clothing. He swiped much of the humiliating insult away, leaving a thin layer arcing across the archer's upturned face.

Deeply satisfied, but far from finished, he ordered:

" _On the bed_."

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the last chapter. After the last page of this chapter, I not sure what else I could do with it. 
> 
> Even I'm kinda traumatized. 
> 
> ¥€¥€¥€¥€¥€¥€¥€¥€¥'€¥€¥€¥€¥€¥€¥

"On the bed."

The elaborate bed seemed 50 miles away. Steadying himself on the table, Clint moved in stiff steps, fumbling to loosen the hasp of the buckle digging in cruelly. His legs threatened to give out again as it came off. He experienced a momentary feeling of vertigo as the vice-grip ache in his stomach was replaced with an agonized emptiness. He caught the edge of the high bed and amazingly managed to settle on it. The dense pile of pillows put him in a partially reclined position. By the time he pulled his legs up, he nearly passed out.

"Agent Barton, you've neglected to remove your boots."

Clint wanted to cry. The burning radiating everywhere redoubled as he tried to sit up. His head so muddled with pain, rage and disgust, he hardly could function on his body's independent efforts. Despite the order, his body couldn't comply. His core and arms were just too weakened to rise. He remained lying against the pillows and brought his knee to his chest trying to reach the boots. The compression choked him and he gave up.

He was confronted by the thought that he was likely mortally injured; with blood seeping from a traumatized organ or lacerated vessel. He'd witnessed soldiers in combat die like this, from wounds that couldn't be treated or staunched.

Even as he contemplated his own imminent death, his body still attempted the order. He even managed to loosen the laces before another cramp seized him. Possession or no, he hurt too damn much to move.

"Fuck," he said. It came out somewhere between a moan and a defeated exhalation. He couldn't even steel himself as Loki strode toward him.

"You humans can do nothing for yourselves," Loki scoffed. He placed his palm on Clint's forehead and ran it length of his torso. Instantly, the pain lifted from his fatigued arms, his shattered cheek and his deeply aching gut. The sudden relief flooded his overtaxed system with endorphins and the world dimmed and faded to black.

* * *

He woke minutes or hours or days later, disoriented and drained, wondering what the hell was happening. Whatever had loosened his bonds or, at least, his tongue; it was gone now. He felt his mouth and his limbs firmly out of his control, standing at the ready to obey. Loki had promised him a test of his "loyalty;" sickeningly, he doubted this was it.

Shit. What more could he be forced to do?

Still compelled by the last order, he toed off his boots and knocked them to the floor. He became aware that he could move without paralyzing pain and see with both eyes. Glancing down his exposed body, he saw that not only were the dangerously purpling bruises gone, the scar below his ribs was gone, too.

Loki was able to regenerate his damaged tissue. He took little comfort in this; he was merely primed for another round of the god's strange fetish. The strategic portion of his brain noted that _if_ Loki relied on regeneration rather than complete invulnerability, a swift enough strike could kill him, but it was a big 'if.'

His left knee, however, still twinged as the boots came off; an old injury. Bastard could have finished the job.

Recollection and details of this new ordeal continued to detonate in his brain. He'd mocked a vindictive despot who was... _what the hell **was** he doing?_ He refused to think about it, or what might be next, for as long as he could avoid it–which probably wasn't very long.

Why, and how, the hell had he provoked him? _Really fucking genius_ , Barton. His mouth seemed to have been operating with absolutely no input from his brain; nothing too terribly unusual about that. However, it'd also been independent of Loki's control.

It wasn't unlike the impulse to shoot Director Fury in the densest part of his body armor moments after he'd been taken. Even disoriented and with a gun, he still could have put a bullet in center of that eye patch at three times that distance. He wondered if he would be able to slip his leash again enough to thwart Loki's plans or to break the control in some way. He suspected the way was probably death. Maybe he could slow his reactions and let someone take him down, but he doubted he could do more.

Even if Tasha found him, it wasn't as if she could just drag him out. He'd probably try to kill her.

Which would at least solve his problem. She'd kick his ass–no intervention from him required.

He pushed the thoughts of her away; it just made his head hurt. He realized he'd been expecting her all along–that she'd arrive and pull his ass out of the fire. Their partnership seemed built on a solid foundation of mutual rescue. Now, he wasn't sure she wanted to find him like this, tied to Loki's bed by invisible bonds, the god's come drying on his face.

The taste lingered in his mouth. He wanted coffee.

Unable to avoid it any longer, he looked around and found the god across the room staring into blankness. He frequently slipped into these trances; sending his consciousness elsewhere. Loki usually returned from these forays enraged and Clint expected to be an outlet for these new frustrations.

Loki's eyes snapped open as if in response.

As expected, the god looked furious. His jaw clenched and relaxed, eyes burning the middle-distance. But when he looked at Clint, he regarded him with neutrality, a clinical consideration, before smiling with that false charm.

"You earned your punishment and your reward."

"Yes, si.... Yes." Clint decided not to try and sort out which things fell into which category.

"You are mine."

"Yes," he said, hoarsely.

The bright green eyes fixed on him, nodding for him to rise.

Clint sat up with unnecessary care, expecting a burst of pain to knife through his stomach, wincing as he rose from the pillows and drew up his knees. He felt nothing but apprehension.

"You must be quite parched."

Clint's voice threatened to rasp to nothingness as he croaked assent. Loki condescended to pour water from a silver ewer that may or may not have existed seconds before and offered it to him.

A fucking chalice. Seriously. He poured the water into a fucking _chalice_. Clint reached for it, surprised at how steady his hands seemed as he drained the ridiculous cup. The cold water burned. He considered after he swallowed that he now had something to throw up.

Pushing him back to the pillows, Loki's cold hand drifted down his chest and came to rest on Clint's stomach. He applied the lightest pressure and Clint knew not to resist. Hanging from the wall, he had little choice; here, he had to fight his natural reaction to protect his soft organs. Instead a violent invasion, Loki touched him with tenderness, skimming along the natural lines of the muscles, indenting especially pliable areas and lingering at a few sensitive spots. He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, alternated between gentle kisses and watching Clint's reactions. It was very different from the painful debasement and injury he sustained earlier.

It was worse.

Even his enthralled body shifted uncomfortably. His breathing grew more rapid. Independently, his teeth bore into his lip. He concentrated on that pain, glad to have something else to focus on instead of the probing of his relaxed abdomen and the long fingers now tantalizingly brushing the front of his pants. Loki used the heel of his hand to press a slow cadence under his ribs, regulating his diaphragm.

"I am not going to strike you," he said, voice devoid of reassurance. A slim digit bore in on one of the pressure points and Clint reeled as a current thrummed along the nerves, white light shot up behind his eyes and a distressing warm sensation down to his groin. His back arched up into it, driving the point harder. Loki clucked his tongue, "Such a deliciously responsive body. You are very lucky, Agent Barton."

He released the pressure point and the disorientation ceased. But even as his spine flattened, Clint knew the respite would be brief. The iron finger jabbed back into his stomach hard a moment later. He bit down harder on his lips, willing his body to not respond but unable to prevent it.

"The human nervous system is a marvelous thing, but you are all so focused on nipples and genitals, nipples and genitals." He plucked sharply at Clint's chest; a stinging counterpoint to the crush of sensation in his belly. Then he shifted from light teasing to more earnest attention to his cock.

"All your strength, all your training, all your weapons; what are they worth when you are completely at the mercy of your own neurology?" He relented finally and Clint exhaled roughly as his body slowly relaxed, melting against the pillows. Loki

Clint changed his mind–he didn't care how she found him, didn't care if she killed him, Natasha needed to get here. Right. Fucking. _Now_.

His teeth broke the skin, the new-penny taste sharp on his tongue.

The god straddled his thighs and leaned close to sample the red bead welling on his lip. He paused, prolonging the contact and then sat back on his heels so Clint could see his own blood on his mouth. His tongue slid out and deliberately dabbed at the crimson smear.

"I want you to touch me," he ordered, "as you would a lover."

"Yes, sir."

Loki eyes flashed. Clint lowered his head in involuntary expectation of another blow. Instead, Loki cupped his chin, raised it and kissed him lingeringly. He took Clint's hand and placed it on the back of his neck, twined in his dark hair. Clint sat up and drew him closer. He squirmed inside as his body moved as genuinely as if he wanted nothing more, returning the kiss with a wonton physicality.

When Loki's tongue slid into his mouth, he caressed it. He was suddenly painfully aware of how warm and soft the god's lips were. And how good he smelled. How stimulating it was when he began to travel along his jaw and down, nipping and sucking. How his hair falling loosely against his chest sent little thrills along his skin. He was not sure what was a force of Loki's will and his body's response to it and what was just a measure of how fucked up his head was, but he suddenly burned with an aching need.

He felt his body spring into action, rolling the god beneath him. If Loki wanted him to be _Clint_ and not a thrall, well, Clint had never been passive in bed. His mouth grew more demanding, scuffing his days-old stubble against the god's silken skin. One strong hand still fisted in Loki's hair, the other began to work at the buttons on his shirt.

He saw shock yield to curiosity and fascination when he disengaged from Loki's mouth. He released the grip at his nape and braced over him, breathing hard.

Several buttons gone, he dipped into Loki's shirt, rough fingers chaffing at his nipple as he circled it. He felt himself harden as his lower body pinned the slender god to the mattress. His internal discomfort increased as his body, auto-piloted by some primal part of his brain, ground against Loki with an appreciative grunt.

Shifting his hips, he reached between their two bodies and stroked his own cock.

"No," Loki pushed his wrist back to the bed. Clint whimpered at the loss of contact. "Not without my leave."

"Then let me fuck you," Clint heard himself urge as he planted a row of kisses trailing from Loki's ear to the hollow of his throat.

"You presume, Agent Barton!"

He shoved him away and walked proudly around the room, collecting himself. Clint watched him, his chest tightening with anxiety, his pulse quickening in his temples, behind his navel and between his legs, awash with want and worry. Resentful and pitiless eyes regarded him before darkening with carnality. He approached and pressed his mouth over Clint's, sucking his broken lower lip into his mouth and it began to bleed again.

Loki guided him to the foot of the bed. The high board curved oddly, culminating in an ornamentation that rose like a figurehead. It was the size of his doubled fists. And he expected it to feel similar to that when it punched into his stomach, which is what he knew was going to happen next: Loki was going to fuck him bowed over the foot board with that thing shoved into his gut.

The cotton boxer briefs, his last layer of protection, were pulled free. The cold air prickled at his fully bared body, the cold searing his erection.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut as the god bent him until the carved prominence made contact with his navel. He gulped nervously as Loki positioned himself to enter him and cried out when he did, the cold dollop of lubricant precious little help.

Loki forced him to release his grip on the bed frame, preventing him from bracing himself against the onslaught. Supported only by his knees on the mattress and his belly on the footboard, his body rocked with each stroke. He felt his skin grow slick with sweat as he tried to coordinate his gasping breaths around the relentless surging.

The dual invasion of god's cock in his ass and the wooden carving in his belly tore through him. Each thrust ground the hard swell of the footboard into his abdomen; Loki swiveled his hips at the apex of some thrusts, rolling Clint's viscera cruelly against the uneven surface.

Still, he remained painfully, shamefully hard, his arousal squeezing his lower belly even as the bed pushed deep into his midsection.

Loki's hands slid around his waist to explore where the wood met abdomen. Cool fingers tested the depth of penetration, groaning avidly at the result and his pace increased.

As his movements became more erratic, Loki clutched at Clint's shoulders until he bled.

Loki roughly withdrew, forcing Clint away and slamming him ruthlessly against the bed. The small sound forced from his throat as the carving plunged towards his spine encompassed a grunt, a gasp, a cry, and a moan as his breath was flattened from his body.

Before his lungs could refill with air and stop his diaphragm lurching, the god climbed between his thighs and loomed over him.

Trying to block it out, he filled his head with shot trajectories, flight physics and wind resistance; the dying faces of his past targets, of comrades he should have protected, of his brother and of his most recent victims; any other analytical or distressing things he could think of to occupy his mind.

It did nothing to deaden his senses or diminish his misplaced lust. Loki trapped Clint's cock between their bodies as he reseated himself. A claw-like hand settled around his neck, thumb resting against the hollow of his throat, but he did not apply pressure. Instead, he caressed the delicate area and he kissed him as he began to move.

When the god finally sagged against him, Clint's wanton body almost joined him in release, but relief remained just out of reach.

"Please, sir," Clint hated the longing in his voice. Hated even more that he wasn't sure what part of his mind was doing the pleading. Hated most of all the unassailable need between his legs. "Please?"

The capricious green eyes hardened. "I said you would ache for my touch; I never said anything about gratifying it."

Loki dropped the clothes onto Clint's chest and turned away contemptuously. His armor materializing as he strode to the door. He waved in the direction of the remaining water.

"Clean up. We leave for Stuttgart in an hour."


End file.
